


Lightning Strikes Twice

by ssleif



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Background Berica - Freeform, F/M, M/M, Western, harelequin, i'm sorry guys, including Allison, past Derek/Kate - Freeform, past/background canon character deaths, this is not an everyone lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-01 21:47:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11495409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssleif/pseuds/ssleif
Summary: Sent to a dude ranch in the west to recover his health, Stiles Stilinski falls in love with a ranch owner recently acquitted of the murder of his wife!(Inspired by the 1951 movie of the same name)





	1. He took a midnight train

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bliz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bliz/gifts).



> Okay, my giftee, Blizgori, asked for period stuff and Harlequin stuff… I’m not 100% what qualifies as harlequin other than tropey goodness… but about a year ago I saw a movie on the TCM channel, and I spent most of it skyping Six the Sterek-Au version of it… which I saved in a google doc. So. What has mistaken identity, secret plots, star crossed lovers, and pre-computer tech?
> 
> Lightning Strikes Twice.
> 
> So here it is, one of the tropey-er things I’ve ever done. Hope it fulfills the niche pretty well!
> 
> (also, I considered going a/b/o for this, and eventually decided against it… but I wasn’t interested in working in the period-typical-homophobia-dynamic, so we are living in a rascism-present but homophobia-free parallel harlequin universe. XD)

Stiles stumbled through the front door of the Martin Hotel at half-past two in the morning, and he was ready to drop. A car, a bus, and a week on a crowded passenger train where he almost missed his stop— he barely had the energy left to drag his suitcase through the door with his good arm. The quiet, warm lights of the lobby almost made him want to cry, he was so ready for a nightcap and a bed.

“You’re sure there were no other calls?” demanded a beautiful redhead, seated at the end of a deep mahogany bar that ran along one side of the Lobby. “Well ask him!” she continued into the telephone in her left hand, “I don’t care what time it is, wake him.” Stiles tried not to stare at the way she tapped the long red nails of her right hand against the bar in irritation. “Of course I’ll hold on.”

He shook himself, blinked hard, and turned to the curly-haired young man staring pointedly at him from behind a large desk, eyebrows arched in incredulity. Stiles cleared his throat.

“I’d, uh, like a room and a bed for the night, please.”

The young man’s eyebrows rose a little higher, but he delicately flicked open a large book and began turning pages.

“Yes sir.”

Stiles ignored the tone, busying himself with setting his case at his feet and taking the weight off his arm, instead. After a moment, where the woman’s tapping on the bar had gotten even more irate, if possible, the young man slid the ledger across the desk to Stiles, along with a pen.

Stiles started to print his name, but paused for a moment. Making a quick decision, he finished his signature with a large, unnecessary flourish. The young man’s lip curled a little, but he took the book back.

“Room 17, second floor.”

Stiles started to reach for his things again, and stopped again, remembering--

“Could you tell me where I could rent a small car for tomorrow afternoon?”

The young man was not forthcoming.

“To go where, sir?”

Stiles bit back his instinct to demand what business it was of this fellows.

“Tumblemoon. It’s a dude ranch about 80 miles from here?”

The eyebrows did not drop.

“Oh I know Tumblemoon, sir, but…” he paused a moment, eyes darting to the woman (whose tetth-grinding was audible to stiles, even at twenty feet) and back. “Do… do they expect you?”

Stiles sighed, giving into the questioning.

“I should think so. I’ve had my reservations for weeks. Is that not the typical way?”

The young man’s brow furrowed.

“It’s odd, I must say-”

“What’s so odd,” The woman interrupted, suddenly seeming to pay intense attention to them, “about having a reservation at a dude ranch?” The man’s face fell, and Stiles was immediately suspicious.

Damnit.

“Summers’ garage,” she continued, focused on Stiles then, and he fought to keep from showing a reaction under that regard, “two doors from here rents cars. I use the place myself— it’s very reasonable.”

“Summers’?” he forced himself to respond, suddenly wishing he could either be at home or asleep, anything to avoid intrigue of any kind. “Thank you, very much.” He felt his stomach growl at that moment and, blushing faintly, turned back to the young man. “Do you think I could have a sandwich sent up to my room?”

He looked incredulous again.

“It’s half past two in the morning, sir.”

But the woman, Stiles’ brain was starting to catch up to his exhausted body, and he thought she must be the owner, or the owner’s wife at least, to speak with such command, overruled him again.

“Nonsense. If the guest is hungry, he should have something to eat.”

The young man dropped his head, and stepped out from behind the desk.

“Yes, Ms. Martin.”

Ha. Stiles’ wits were not completely absent.

“And some hot milk!”

Stiles picked up his luggage and started for the stairs, nodding his thanks at Ms. Martin.

The young man had almost made it out of the room, when she called him back.

“Lahey.”

He paused.

“Yes, ma’am?”

She gestured impatiently.

“Do you expect him to show himself to his room?”

“No indeed, ma’am, of course not. This way sir.”

The young man, Lahey, hurried back into the room, and took Stiles’ case. As they headed up the level, Stiles could just make out the other end of Ms. Martin’s phone call being picked up again.

“No ma’am, there were no other calls.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Very well then. We’ll be back tomorrow.”

Stiles heard Ms. Martin stand, and move across the floor. She paused, and spoke again.

“No message at the ranch. No one has seen him.”

An apparently male voice answered her.

“Why is he doing this, Lydia? It’s over. So where is he?”

And then Isaac led him around a corner, and the conversation was lost.

 

 

  
Stiles jerked awake as his drapes were pulled back and the room flooded with sunlight.

“Sorry, I thought I’d better do something to get you up.”

He blinked, shook his head a little, and saw Ms. Martin standing at his window.

“What time is it?” he asked, surreptitiously checking to make sure he was decent. He was.

She put her hands on her hips.

“After two, you’ve slept the clock around. Do you often do that?”

Stiles rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’m an actor, actually.” He gave a little self-deprecating laugh. “That’s why people become actors, isn’t it? So they can sleep late?”

She smiled, but didn’t laugh.

“It’s funny,” he continued, trying a new tack, “but I distinctly recall locking that door last night.”

“Master key,” she said delicately.

“Ah. I suppose you would have one for your own hotel.” He yawned, stretching as far as his sore shoulder would let him. “I’m assuming this is your hotel, right?”

“It is.” She was tying the curtains open, and looking out the window, seeming to take no notice of him. “I also own that store, that garage, and a sizeable ranch.”

Stiles made a show of perking up.

“You don’t happen to own a theatre too, do you?”

“Hmm…” she turned back to him, scrutinizing. “A movie house?”

“No.” He let himself look a touch crestfallen. “Ah well.”

She pursed her lips a little.

“Not very good luck, I take it?”

Stiles laughed again, and spun his story.

“Oh, some. I got my break not long ago playing Mercutio in a traveling production of Romeo and Juliet. Turns out, getting murdered every night and then lying dead on a drafty stage at least once a day didn’t agree with me.” Stiles paused for affect, and Ms. Martin smiled. ”Injured my shoulder, took ill, and was finally ordered out here for a while to improve my health.”

After a moment, she opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a rap at the door frame, and Stiles finally noticed Mr. Lahey standing in the hall, holding a breakfast tray.

Ms. Martin took it from him, and set it up for Stiles. She then thanked Lahey and sent him off with a glance.

Smelling the eggs and bacon and toast and jam (and coffee!), Stiles was suddenly reminded of how many weeks it had been since he’d had a proper, sit-down-while-it’s-hot, meal.

“If this is a sample of western hospitality,” he proclaimed, smiling completely genuinely at Ms. Martin and sorting out the napkin and silverware, “then I like it!”

“It’s all being done with a purpose, I’m afraid.” And there it was. Stile regretfully laid down his fork. “I want you to do me a favor.”

Well, he was a gentleman, more-or-less.

“Of course,” He nodded, “if I can.”

“You spoke about hiring a car to drive out to Tumblemoon?” He nodded again, cautiously. “Well, my husband has just driven into town in the convertible, but I had to come in a few days ago on short notice, and I already have the big car here.” Waved one hand imperiously, clearly dismissive of her husband’s decision-making skills. “We’d like to go back together, but that leaves me with an extra car on my hands. If you’d drive our smaller car to tumble moon, it’ll save you a little money, and save me making an extra trip back here.”

Stiles frowned a little, trying to see the angle.

“How will you get it again?”

She waved her hand.

“Our ranch, the N bar T, is only 20 miles from Tumblemoon. That’s next door neighbors. I’ll come and get it, when I have the chance.”

Stiles nodded, finally, amenable.

“In that case, I’d be happy to.” He replied, and she produced a leaf of paper and a pen and began to sketch him a rough map. Stiles was fairly sure he was being duped in some way, but as he had no evidence save instinct, and he was getting what he needed so far, he played along.

 

 


	2. It was a dark and Stormy night... no, seriously

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two people meet in a storm. ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, here's some actual Derek!
> 
> I'm slowly making my way through the mess that was my first draft, and cleaning it up for public consumption.

“Surely this wasn’t the plan!” He yelled, slamming his fist into the steering wheel, and resigning himself to getting soaked.

When he’d gassed up in Claiborn, he’d ignored the attendant’s friendly advice to take a room in town for the night, figuring it wasn’t very late yet, and he was more than halfway to his destination, by his reckoning. The man’s predictions of a storm has seemed almost laughable, with barely a cloud in the sky.

But Stiles had not been in the west long enough to understand the weather, it seemed, because there he was, pouring rain, lost, and with Lydia Martin’s car buried in mud up to the axle, where the road had apparently washed out. There was enough water all around, flowing through the gully he’s stuck in, that he’d honestly started to worry about the possibility of surviving a potentially life-threatening injury in the course of his job in Chicago, only to drown in a car on dry land in Arizona… when he spotted the house.

At least, he was pretty sure it was a house, light winking cheerfully through windows, beyond the road and scrub and the curtain of rain.

The water level rose a little higher.

Stiles sighed. Reaching into the back for his meager luggage, he wrestled the small case into his lap and open enough to pull out something, anything, the would offer some protection from the chill rain… ah, there it was, he knew he’d brought a slick coat.

Mentally cursing the entire time, he slid into his coat as best he could, snapped his case shut, and shouldered his way out into the rain.

Immediately, he was drenched. Four feet from the car, his left boot came off in the sucking mud, and he immediately lost it. A few more feet, and it turned out there was a fence separating his soon-to-be host’s property from the road. He haphazardly clambered over it, loosing his other boot, and wrenching his bad shoulder.

Staggering a little with the poor footing, and off-balance with pain, he lumbered partially into a tree with long thorns, and was minus a coat by the time he lumbered out again.

He grumbled to himself (as much as he could while panting), lamenting the fact that three days of feeling better does not actually replenish one’s strength, and finally dragged himself onto the porch, under the slight shelter of an overhang. Shivering, he tried the door and found it sensibly locked. Drenched, exhausted, and well on his way to panicked, he stumbled further around the building, looking for… yes. There. A window.

He rapped smartly on it, and then banged, and then yelled. After a moment, a face slid into view on the other side. The man had heavy dark eyebrows, and the beginnings of a beard. He frowned, but jerked his head back towards the door.

Stiles gratefully took the direction.

The man scowled when he opened the door, folding his arms across his chest, and clearly waiting for Stiles to explain himself.

Stiles sighed, and half-shouted to be heard over the thunder and wind.

“My car’s stuck in the mud by your fence, may I come in?”

Without waiting for an answer he shouldered his way in, unfastening his sodden overshirt. He was just about done with the whole evening.

The man’s expression registered surprise for a moment, before settling back into a scowl. But he lead the way down a hall anyway, opening a door at the end to reveal a large sitting room with… oh god yes. A roaring fire.

Stiles dropped his soaked shirt on a bare patch of floor with a squelch, and immediately started stripping out of his soggy socks, and cuffing his mud-ridden pants. He groaned out loud when he finally settled in next to the fire.

“Oh, in all seriousness, thank you so much. This is perfect. I had no idea what I was going to do, and then BAM, like magic, there’s your place. The timing couldn’t have been better…” Okay, so Stiles was a rambler. His host, when he paused in his stripping-and-warming long enough to check, was standing a little awkwardly in the doorway (a little attractively, too, Stiles noted, eyes lingering for a moment on the breadth of his shoulders and the dip of his waist), but didn’t seem any _more_  put off by Stiles’ behavior. So he launched into the tale.

“… and then the gas station man in Claiborn told me to turn at the wash twenty miles from town, but I must have missed it because I was told the road was paved all the way and I haven’t seen a paved road for the last two hour-”

“Where are your shoes?”

Stiles looked down.

“Also by your fence.” He was a little sheepish. “I got out of the car in one step, and out of my shoes in the next. They are,” Stiles gestured vaguely, and the man’s gaze followed his hand, interesting eyes catching the light, “in the mud somewhere.”

He lifted one eyebrow.

“With your jacket?”

Stiles squinted, thinking.

“Trees between the fence and here, I think.”

His host rolled his (seriously, very nice) eyes in the most exaggerated fashion Stiles had ever seen, almost rolling his whole body, and turned and left.

“Wait,” Stiles started, struggling to get back on his feet without putting weight on his shoulder, “Where are you—”

The man stuck his head back in and glared.

“Stay by the fire.”

Stiles stayed.

A few minutes later, he heard the front door slam open again, and shortly thereafter the sound of what was probably his boots and coat hitting the ground.

The man finally came back with the Hamper Ms. Martin had sent for him in his arms.

“Thanks!”

The man just hummed a little, sliding his burden gently to the floor. Stiles, slightly drier and now hungry, continued, unperturbed.

“You picked the right bag.” He pulled it from Derek, and began to unpack it, setting out bundles and containers and jars.

“Uh,” The man started, cleared his throat, started again. “I think I should tell you, there’s no one else in the house.”

Stiles didn’t even look up from the hamper.

“Should.. I scream?”

Stiles watch the man’s feet shifting uncomfortably in the corner of his vision.

“… No one would hear you.”

Stiles smirked.

“I’ll save my breath, then… excellent! Fried chicken.” He began triumphantly unwrapped the bundle. “To thank you for your hospitality, I’ll share!”

The man didn’t say anything, so stiles finally looked up again.

“Oh come on, you have to help me— there’s a whole bird in there!”

The man frowned.

“I’m not hungry.”

Stiles stared, stumped for a moment.

“… it would make me feel better? You’re hardly going to eat my food and then do something terrible to me?”

The man just folded his arms.

“Okay,” Stiles shrugged, “suit yourself.”

And he tucked in. The chicken was a little cold, but very excellent. When it became obvious his host was not going to fill the silence, sullenly heading over to the fireplace to add a few more logs, Stiles took it upon himself to make the conversation. Somehow, speaking with his mouth full seemed the least rude option.

“Texas hospitality is really, mm, something. Without even knowing me,” swallow, “she puts me up for the night, lends me a car, packs food in it in case I get lost, which I did…” pause for another bite, “She’s quite a character, Ms. Martin.”

The man stopped prodding the coals, and abruptly whirled on Stiles, still holding the poker.

Stiles jerked back, abandoning his chicken.

“Did Lydia Martin send you here?!”

“Hey! Friend! Watch what you’re doing with that very hot piece of metal there!”

The man tossed the poker down behind himself without looking, (it landed on the stone hearth) but didn’t pull his fierce glare at all.

“Did. Lydia. Martin. Send. You. Here.”

Stiles paused, hands still raised a little defensively. He was starting to hit on a germ of an idea.

“How, how could she?” He raised his eyebrows. “I wasn’t meant to be _here_  at all, until I got lost and half drowned.”

The man took a step forward. Stiles didn’t move.

“But that’s her car you’re driving.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes.

“As I said, I needed a car to get where I was going, and she loaned me one.”

The man took another step, a little too close for comfort, hands clenched into fists at his sides, looming over Stiles a little.

“And just where are you going?”

Stiles Refused to back up any farther.

“A dude ranch out here.” He met the man’s eyes. “Tumble Moon.”

The man practically snarled.

“Did Lydia Martin know you were going to Tumble Moon.”

Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Of course she did. _That’s why she leant me her car._ ”

The man was plainly furious.

“But she didn’t mention my name.” He sneered. “Ask you to look for me, report to her if you found me?”

“No.”

There was a long pause as they maintained eye contact. The man broke first, turning to pick up the poker.

“I don’t believe you.” He muttered.

Stiles was about out of patience.

“We don’t know each other, You haven’t even given me your name; why should I lie to you?”

“Everybody lies!” the man practically shouted, thrusting the poker back into its holder beside the mantle, sending the whole pail rocking.

Stiles tried not to flinch.

“Forgive me,” he responded, icily, “I’ve been through quite a lot lately. I’m afraid it shows.” He started to wrap up his chicken, deciding he’d rather freeze or drown out in the storm, than sit there are be accused of… whatever. He had a regular habit of doing things that angered people, but he was unused to being accused before he’d actually done anything.

“… you can’t possibly drive on tonight, in this storm.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me.” Stiles continued to place items firmly back in the still-damp hamper. “I’ve caused you enough trouble already.”

The man sighed. Stiles did not look up. He did not want to see his stupid, antagonistic, frustratingly pleasant face.

“I’m afraid there are no beds, that is, none fit to sleep in. There’s no bedding…” stiles opened his mouth to inform the man that the car would do him just fine, anyway, but the man continued, quickly. “But there is a couch in the den, I think you might make out in there.”

Stiles was a little stumped, once he thought about it.

“No beds?” He raised an eyebrow, “Then where were you sleeping?”

“That’s just what I was wondering when you knocked on the door.” The man sighed again. “You see, this isn’t my house. I arrived only a short while before you did. Long enough to get the fire started.”

Stiles was very confused, and very suspicious.

“Not your house.”

The man ran a hand through his hair, tugging in frustration, and then turned to look at Stiles again.

“Don’t… don’t you know who I am?”

Stiles was unmoved.

“Should I?”

The man closed his eyes in apparent resignation for a moment, and then turned and strode to a table at the side of the room, picking up a newspaper.

“Yes,” he finally said, as he handed Stiles the newsprint. “Yes. I think you should.”

Stiles glanced at it, while the man returned to the table and began removing the chimney from an oil lamp there. The headline read ‘MAN KILLS WIFE— ACQUITTED’, with quite an accurate photograph to start the story.

“So,” Stiles said, after a moment of perusal. “You’re Derek hale.”

The man laughed a little, bitterly, replacing the chimney on the now-lit lamp.

“Unfortunately.”

Stiles swallowed, trying to decide what to ask first. He was on a holiday! It was supposed to be relaxing!

Well, Elephants in rooms..

“And your wife?”

Derek stared at him a little.

“You have genuinely heard nothing at all. You genuinely didn’t know.”

Stiles shook his head.

Derek abandoned adjusting the flame height, turned, ran a hand across his face, across his still damp hair.

“She-” he started, and then broke off, swallowed, started again, “She was very beautiful. Attractive, full of laughter… and completely evil.”

He stared at the little flame a moment, and shuddered.

Before Stiles could say anything at all, Derek was pulling him to his feet and handing him the lamp.

“Go to the den.” Derek placed a hand between his shoulder blades and firmly guided him into the hall. They stopped at the first door, which Derek opened.

“There’s a lock on the door.” He informed Stiles, seriously.

Stiles entered, set the lamp on a small table at the end of a sette.

“Do I need it?” he finally asked, looking back.

Derek frowned, the expression Stiles was quickly becoming the most familiar with.

“I want you to feel you are safe.”

Stiles arched a brow.

“From what?”

The dim light played shadows across Derek’s face, in the moment it took him to answer.

“From your thoughts,” he finally said, turning and firmly shutting the door.

Stiles sighed, but went about settling in.

He debated for a moment whether to keep his trousers on. They were wet an uncomfortable, but the room itself was warm enough, and the upholstery of his chosen bed stand-in surprisingly soft and warm, and not particularly dusty. Finally he gave in, and stripped out of those as well, spreading them on the floor in a corner, hoping they might dry without ruining anything.

Then, clad only in his thin shirt and underthings, he dimmed the light, curled up amidst a few decorative pillows, and very quickly drifted off.

He was exhausted enough, that he barely registered the soft swish of the door, the quiet shuffle along the floor, and the warm weight of something being draped across him. Three-quarters dreaming, and honestly feeling as safe as he could remember being since… before the mess in Chicago, he snuggled into the warmth of Derek’s own coat, and passed out.

**Author's Note:**

> More is forthcoming as it's beta'd. Hopefully up by the end of the week!


End file.
